Wash
by meteorfalls
Summary: The Eons are the protectors of the Hoenn region. At least, that's what Brendan's been told. Pokémon Emerald fic, with bits and pieces inspired by ORAS and Greek mythology.
1. Chapter 1

Hoenn has always valued hospitality.

The trees there don't shy away from the nimble wind, nor does the wind bully away the clouds. Storms that stroll into the town sing their peaceful songs without interruption, then meander off to spread their music elsewhere. The flowers that bloom remain for most of the year, bowing to the combees and welcoming them with open arms.

The people in Hoenn are just as gracious as the nature surrounding it. Hushed voices of neighbors refuse to carry any ill will, and all doors are open for any guest or stranger. A decision one may consider risky in any other region, but necessary for Hoenn. After all, those who do harm are believed to one day be smitten by the Eons; they're the protectors of the region, honoring basic human compassion and generosity with their lives.

At least, that's what Brendan's been told.

—⋇⋆✦⋆⋇—

"The feast is gonna start soon!" May whines, tugging on Brendan's hand. "I wanna eat!"

Ignoring his friend's wishes, the five-year-old stares straight ahead towards the backwoods of Littleroot Town, a frown tugging on his lips. A cool, early summer breeze drags through the area, tingling his arms. He ignores that, however, and instead focuses on a figure that stands in the distance, black from the shadows of the trees.

Impatiently, May repeatedly slaps Brendan's head. "_Brendan_!"

Exasperated, Brendan whips his head to glare back at May, cheeks puffing out.

"I see someone," Brendan grumbles, waving one hand towards the direction of the figure.

Hand pausing mid-slap, May freezes, her pouting features transforming into a puzzled stare. Moving herself to stand next to Brendan, she props herself up on her tiptoes, leaning forward. Then, without a word, she scurries towards the stranger, waving her arms around like a monkey. Eyes widening, Brendan stands still for a second, before trailing after his friend.

"Who are you?" May squeaks, pointing an index finger at the stranger as she slows to a halt a few yards away from him.

He doesn't respond. Timidly, Brendan comes to a halt beside May, his fingers latching on to one another. Looking around, Brendan gulps, silently noticing the goosebumps on his arms begin to pop up. The stranger eyes the two up and down slowly, lips pursing together. Carefully, Brendan does the same.

A red getup, for the most part. A red hoodie, and—it looks like there's gray horns on the end? Red boots, red shorts, red bodysuit-looking thing underneath. A giant M stretches across his torso and upper body. His eyes flash a lava-like red, burning into Brendan's own set.

Quickly, Brendan darts his attention elsewhere. _Is he from here?_

Looking at May, Brendan slouches a bit, his head tilting to one side. Maybe. Before he can examine for any longer, though, the stranger begins to walk away, leaving the five-year-olds behind. Gulping once more, Brendan straightens his posture.

He opens his mouth, pauses, then brings his vision on towards Littleroot. "May...? Let's go back."

The feast has always been an integral part of Hoenn's history, and it shows. Scurrying into the town in a fit of giggles, Brendan stares in awe at the streamers coursing throughout the streets, paper lanterns hanging from them. People from all parts of southern Hoenn parade throughout the roads, some playing on their trumpets or other brass instruments. Skipping around, Brendan rushes to find his parents, who are sitting out on their front lawn.

"Mommy! Daddy!" he calls out, waving his arms as soon as they're into view. "Guess what I saw!"

Wiggling from excitement, Brendan scrambles onto his mother's lap. After giving her a small kiss, he snuggles in close, only to freeze when he notices an unfamiliar person sitting next to them. Brendan can't help but take note of the man's excessive usage of the color blue in his clothing, with the bandana and the shirt; it sorta reminds Brendan of a dude on a show he likes.

"Who's that?" Brendan asks, not taking his stare off of the man.

Chuckling a bit, his mother waves towards the newcomer. "Brendan, this is Archibald. He's one of our guests."

"I'd like to be called Archie." Extending one hand out, Archibald smiles. "Nice to meet ya, mini-Norman!"

Brendan eyes the hand, frowning as he hugs his mother. However, she shifts Brendan around on her lap, placing him onto her knee. Grabbing hold of his arm, she stretches it out towards Archie's, forcing a shake between them. After a few seconds of—notably awkward—shaking, she drops Brendan's arm, and he immediately retreats it back to his side.

"What did you see, Brendan?" his father pipes up from the other side of Archie, leaning forward. "Was it a pokémon?"

Brendan shakes his head adamantly. "No, I saw a guy!" Brendan's parents exchanged glances. "He was tall, he wore red, he had a big M on his shirt, uh..." Brendan pauses, shrinking under Archie's hardening stare. "He was...quiet?"

Before anyone could comment, an alarm buzzes from his father's pants. Sitting upright, he slides a phone out of his pocket, checking the time.

"Lauren, I gotta get the bonfire ready," he mumbles, standing up.

And with that, he leaves, heading straight for the center of the town. Leaning backwards, Brendan opts to stare at the clear sky. It's getting awfully close to sunset; he can already hear his stomach rumbling. Closing his eyes and tuning out the conversation between his mother and Archie, Brendan smiles a bit, licking his lips at the idea of his mother's seaweed stew.

Opening his eyes for just a split second, he casts a sideways glance over towards Archie.

_Why is he staring at me?_

Inching himself further away, Brendan blushes a bit, blue eyes darting elsewhere to avoid any eye contact.

As if she's noticed the awkward exchange there, Lauren clears her throat, wrapping one hand around Brendan's. "Wanna go watch Dad start the bonfire?"

Meeting his mother's gaze, Brendan puts on a cheeky grin, nodding his head.

—⋇⋆✦⋆⋇—

The flames from the bonfire shoot up into the orange sky, performing a dance Brendan has only seen in Saturday cartoons. Abandoning May to sit by his mother, Brendan curls his knees up to his chest as the festivities go on. When the buzzing conversations surrounding them begin to fade away, Norman, who sits on the other side of the bonfire, lifts himself up to his feet, a smile plastered on his lips. With a wave of his hand, any remaining talk dies.

"On this day, it is said that the Eon Twins have been graced by an old couple that valued hospitality above all," Norman begins, raising his voice so it stretches across the clearing. "We must honor Latios and Latias by doing the same."

Nodding, Norman turns to face a line of people, all eager-eyed and trembling with anticipation. One in particular rises first, moving to stand beside Norman. Scrambling to his knees, Brendan lifts his nose, peering over the head in front of him.

_Archie!_ Brendan notes, swaying a bit as he tries to keep his balance.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Maple," Archie says. The content look on his face fades away quickly, however, leaving behind a solemn, stony stare. "But I doubt we can celebrate, at least not now."

His dark eyes stretch over the crowd, pausing momentarily on Brendan. Instinctively, he inches closer to his mother, wrapping around her arm. Slowly, Archie steps forward, picking his way through the crowd to loom over Brendan and his mother. Brendan hasn't realized how small he stands until now, when he cranes his neck to gawk at the man.

"Scamp, " Brendan flinches, but Archie pays no mind, "earlier you said you saw someone. Well, that someone could be dangerous. Did he follow you?"

Brendan whimpers, his arms and legs trembling as all of the surrounding eyes sink into his own, drowning him in their bewildered stares. Slowly, he shakes his head.

"I—I don't know," Brendan squeaks, scooting closer to his mother.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Archie exclaims, his voice exploding. "You 'ave eyes, don't you? Did he follow you or not?"

A meek whimper escaping his lips, Brendan presses his face against his mother's arm, squeezing his eyes shut. Carefully, Lauren rubs her son's back, glaring daggers sharper than a warrior's sword at Archie.

"You're scaring him," she growls, eyes flickering towards Norman for a split second. "Stop."

Archie scoffs, jeering at Brendan. "That kid's feelin's matter more than your safety—"

"That's enough!" A booming roar echoes throughout the town as Norman stomps over, pushing Archie away from his family. "We give you our hospitality, and you decide to scare my kid? Do you think the Eons will approve of that?"

Prying his face away from Lauren's arm, Brendan sniffles, shrinking under his own skin. Never before has he seen his father this angry.

...Especially after the comment Archie slides in: "I reckon that the Eons don't approve of your son."

All of the rage from the restless Mt. Chimney wouldn't top the volcanic fury in Norman's features. Eyes wide, Brendan whips his stare back and forth between Archie and his father, now ripping away from his mother's reach. Without a second thought, Norman swings a fist towards Archie's face. Archie side-steps out of the way rather nonchalantly, crossing his arms as he does so.

"So much for hospitality, eh?" he chuckles, whistling under his breath. "Listen: I can help you deal with them scoundrels. They're easy to take care of, once you know their game." Looking around, Archie lands his eyes onto the Birch Laboratory. "I just need some...payment in return."

"Our payment to you is nothing," Norman spits, stepping forward. Archie steps back. "You've overstayed your welcome. Leave."

The entire town holds in its breath. For a moment, Archie stands there, his expression blank. Then he smirks, offering a shrug of his shoulders. Like a slakoth, Archie leisurely strolls towards the entrance of Littleroot, hands in his pockets while he whistles some foreign tune. A few more seconds later, he disappears. Squirming, Brendan glances up at his father, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt when he notes the fiery glower that remains fixated in the direction of where Archie left.

But as soon as Norman makes eye contact with Brendan, Brendan throws his stare elsewhere. Conveniently, he finds himself looking towards May. However when she glances at him, he simply tenses, eyes falling to the grass beneath his shoes.

"May, Brendan?" Professor Birch's voice is something soft, something that makes Brendan ease the tension in his shoulders. "Why don't you two run off and play? I'll let Mulberry tag along."

Mulberry, Professor Birch's sceptile. A mighty creature that, according to May, was made for hugs. (To Brendan, though, she just looks pregnant.)

Sniffing once more, Brendan rises to his feet, fingers clenching together as he scurries towards May. A beam of light assimilates in front of them, eventually fading away and revealing a sceptile. Immediately, May runs off towards the backwoods of Littleroot; Brendan chooses to stay behind for a moment, quickly glancing back at his parents. After a small nod from his father, and a bit more hesitation, he slowly follows May's footprints.

The back woods of Littleroot have always been the safest part of the town. Well, no—Brendan's mom's hugs are the safest part. The title for second can belong to the woods, though; Brendan has never felt worried or upset when back there. The trees reveal the skies, but still provide plenty of coverage from around. The taillows and beedrills chirp and buzz, but still remain respectful of their space. His daily cartoons may call the woods a danger, but they're perfectly fine to him.

Plopping belly-first into the grass beside May and Mulberry, Brendan buries his head into his arms, exhaling softly. Even though the sun has set by now, Brendan can't help but release any stress from inside himself, resting one cheek against his arms to glance over at May.

"That guy was lying," May pipes up, her finger wrapping around a dandelion. "Do you think so?" Brendan kicks his legs up into the air, blinking. Not even fazed by the lack of a response, May picks the dandelion out of the ground, holding it close to her face. "I think so."

Brendan moves his gaze on over to the sky. _Yeah, I think so, too._

Silence. Chin pressed up on his arms now, Brendan stares straight ahead, eyes drooping. A shadowy blob stands there in the distance, but no matter how hard he squints, Brendan can't make it out. Then—it moves closer, slowly. Jumping to her feet, Mulberry releases a strangled form of a growl, the needles on her tail rising. A stone dropping in his stomach, Brendan lifts himself to his elbows, eyebrows furrowing together.

The person from earlier.

Those lava eyes have not changed one bit since he was last seen earlier that day. Scrambling backwards, Brendan inhales as the stranger steps closer. May hops to her feet rather cheerfully, pointing one index finger at the person.

"The guy warned us about you!" May lightly gasps, standing on her tiptoes. "What are you doing?"

The stranger remains silent, only stopping in his tracks just two yards away from them. Mulberry growls even louder, thrusting herself in front of May with bared teeth. Brendan rushes to stand beside May, one hand reaching for Mulberry's left claw. At first, the stranger seems relatively unbothered, his stare dragging on for miles with a slight twitch of his arms.

But then he yowls a deathly screech, keeling over and stumbling from side to side.

Flinching as May basically throws herself around him, Brendan watches in horror as navy blue arrows shoot out of the stranger's back, donning a wingspan of at least sixteen feet. His body fades into a cloudy gray, all while his head morphs into a more triangle-like shape. With yet another screech like nails on a chalkboard, the stranger—no, the pokémon—reels backward, malicious eyes locking with Mulberry's.

It looks like an airplane, the beast. A dragon, too, with the purple fire encircling its nostrils and tongue. Is this really what Archie was going on about?

Rooting a battle stance, Mulberry snorts, her tail swishing side to side. The two pokémon growl and hiss at one another, before the dragon throws its head into the air. A powerful surge of purple fire and plasma combined fires straight for Mulberry, but she reacts faster, summoning a purple barrier around her and the terrified kids. Once the dust settles, the barrier falls.

Trembling like a miniature earthquake, Brendan turns heel and aims to bolt away, but a set of gray claws yank him off of the ground by his collar. A blaziken with a scar cutting right across its beak stares square into Brendan's wet eyes, its grip tightening around his shirt as it lifts him above its head. An older man with red hair and black glasses positions himself by his blaziken, a scowl forming on his lips as he eyes the squirming Brendan up and down.

"Child, I can't afford to let people know of my latios," he chides, his voice eerily soft as he plays with the black pokéball in his hand.

Looking at his blaziken, he snaps his fingers. With a caw so loud it can make people go deaf, the blaziken rips open its beak, flames swirling around its tongue. Almost immediately, May slams her foot against the old man's knee and, with disbelief, the blaziken slams its beak shut and gapes at its trainer. A mighty gust of wind and leaves pummels right into the blaziken's chest, causing it to screech and drop Brendan. Shooting a grateful glance back towards Mulberry, Brendan reaches for May's hand and books it, their legs a blur as they sprint towards Littleroot.

A roar from Brendan's nightmares sounds from behind the closer they get towards their town. Daring to not look back, Brendan and May burst through the bordering bushes and towards the bonfire, where all of the adults shoot up with concern. A flash of purple rockets through the air, colliding into the grass where Brendan and May had stepped just milliseconds before.

Screaming.

All he manages to register is the chorus of screaming. Being yanked away from May's hand, he slams his eyes shut at the blinding flashes of light.

When he next opens his eyes, his gaze meets the latios', so close to it that he can hear its breathing. Body growing numb, he stumbles backwards, pressing against the freezing side of a house. Inhaling a heavy amount, Brendan braces himself, tears pouring out of his eyes like a waterfall.

The latios floats as still as a stone, barely making any signs of attack. Instead, it studies Brendan, ignoring the chaos behind them. Its eyes—they're softer. The pupils are growing in size as it floats back a bit, ears pinning against its skull. But then it cries out a shrill yelp, nearly falling onto the ground while sparks crackle around it. Twitching like a madman, the latios throws itself from side to side, seemingly fighting a battle with itself. Without any warning, it lashes out, clawing against Brendan's arm.

Blood leaks out of Brendan's new wound, sizzling from the boiling attack. Screaming, he presses against the house even harder as the latios spasms.

_Crack!_

A slaking's fist plows straight into the latios' head, sending it flying.

"Daddy!" Brendan bawls, reaching his unscathed arm out before Norman scoops him up.

After recovering from the blow, the latios hurls a scorching column of plasma right into the slaking. Holding onto Brendan tightly, Norman rushes out of the way, feet kicking dirt into the air as he—and many other people in Littleroot—hurry for the entrance. Houses burn and crash all around them, almost effortlessly. Streamers give way and stumble towards the ground like leaves, their edges charred and ripped. Smoke seeps through the area, striking their lungs and penetrating their vision.

Peering over Norman's shoulder, Brendan watches the latios continue to stir the destruction it created, the town of Littleroot shrinking in the distance.


	2. Chapter 2

"It has been seven years since the attack on Littleroot."

Wolfing down his cereal, Brendan tunes in to the television.

"Rumors say that a man associated with Team Magma has committed the crime, however no arrests have been made since the incident."

Brendan glares daggers at the television in the living room, a sharp huff escaping his lips. As images of the aftermath flash across the screen, he instinctively reaches for the scar on his arm, a finger rubbing against the skin. It really has been seven years, huh? Dang. His stomach suddenly weighing down on him, Brendan glances down at his half-finished bowl. Without a second thought, he dumps the rest of the cereal into the sink, washing it down the drain.

_Seven years,_ he thinks. _Wow._

Hands falling to his sides, Brendan exhales softly, walking to the television. Pausing in front of the coffee table, he silently stares blankly at the continuous PowerPoint of images, all sliding after one another at an attempt of a transition. A crude drawing of the latios appears next, a depiction of what eye witnesses described it to be like to sketch artists. The drawing screams what the pokémon did scream: ruthless, relentless, deadly, horrifying.

Reaching for the remote, he turns off the television.

With a deep breath, Brendan closes his eyes, pursing his lips together. Turning heel, he saunters towards the stairwell, looking up at the second floor.

"Skipper, you coming?" he calls, one hand resting on his hip.

A few thumps and bumps later, a marshtomp scurries down the stairs, his breathing heavy. A dorky, cheesy grin is forever glued onto the blue pokémon's lips, his two tail fins wagging a thousand miles per hour. If smiling was contagious, this marshtomp would cause an unstoppable epidemic. Giggling, Brendan pats Skipper's head, before moving his hands to scratch his chin. The water-and-ground type releases a strange mix between a boisterous chortle and a humble screech, waving his arms in the air.

It was about four or five years ago when Brendan had found Skipper. It was just after May's treecko hatched from her egg when the duo went racing through the backwoods of Littleroot, an activity they supposedly weren't allowed to do but did anyways. Sheer luck guided Brendan to find a pokéball; a weak, sickly little mudkip was inside. Professor Birch couldn't trace back to whoever owned the pokémon, so inevitably—it became Brendan's.

No longer does Skipper look like that frail, bone-revealing little thing. While he isn't muscular by any means, he did put on a good amount of weight (Brendan fights the urge to joke _too much weight_), and just two years ago he evolved into a marshtomp. Now he stands right at Brendan's hip instead of the lower half of his calf, and according to Professor Birch, he should evolve soon. Brendan doubts that's true, though.

"Are you ready, bud?" Brendan laughs, stepping back. Crouching down, he hops just a few inches off the ground, which is enough to make the marshtomp turn his tail fins into cruise ship propellers with how much they wag. "Tell me, are you ready?"

Skipper bounces his head up and down, even giving his own tiny jump into the air. Then—he catapults himself at his trainer. Grunting, Brendan just barely manages to catch the pokémon, exhaling heavily at the weight in his arms. After a few moments of fumbling, he manages to shift Skipper into a cradling position. Playfully rolling his eyes, Brendan glances up at the second floor.

"Mom, Dad," he calls, already walking towards the front door, "I'm heading out."

A series of unintentionally aggressive footsteps pound down the stairs. "Wait just a minute!"

Despite the fact that his hand presses against the doorknob, Brendan sighs and pauses in his tracks. Turning back around, he faces his father.

"Are you all studied up for the test?" Norman asks, running a comb through his hair. Brendan nods. "Good. Will you be back in time to help prepare the food for the feast?"

Brendan hesitates, his eyes shifting to the clock above their heads. Eight in the morning right now; the test should only take a couple of hours, maybe three. Half-heartedly, Brendan bobs his head up and down.

"Great." Smiling, Norman takes a step back. "Be sure to win against May."

Brendan offers a tiny chuckle, shrugging. "I'll try my best."

Despite his words, a shiver runs through his spine as he exits the house, closing the door behind him. Gingerly, he sets Skipper back onto the ground, chuckling a bit as the marshtomp immediately bolts for the Birch family's home. Brendan can't help but notice the skip in the marshtomp's bounds, and instinctively he cringes, teeth gritting together. Okay, okay—with it being the first day of summer, he understands that a test will be necessary for...well, completing the school year. But _dang_. Another battle against May's grovyle, with a baby-like water-and-ground type?

_I lost every single battle,_ Brendan's brain grumbles, his feet dragging him closer to the Birch family's front door, _what will make me win this year?_

Considering Skipper's double weakness to grass, Brendan can (un)comfortably rest on the chance of nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He knows he can at least pass the test, though.

Slowing to a halt in front of the door, he inhales through gritted teeth. Here goes nothing. Padding his hand against the door, he waits. Children can already be heard from behind, giggling and screaming. When he looks around, he notices a series of cars and faces he doesn't recognize, along with those that he can pinpoint. Muttering something about May taking eight years, Brendan pats his hand against Skipper, the corner of his lips twitching at the marshtomp's cooing.

Finally, the door swings open.

"You're so early!" May half-chides, half-yawns, leaning against the door frame.

Holding back a snort, Brendan eyes her taillow pajamas. "You're late."

May rolls her eyes, taking a step back and throwing her arm in the direction of the living room. Without another word, Brendan steps inside. The Birch home has the exact same layout as his own home, save for the fact that everything is mirrored. Where Brendan's kitchen should be, there's the living room; where his bedroom should be, there's the parents' room. And even though he has known this family for the entirety of his life, he tenses up upon seeing Professor Birch sitting at the dining table, fingers tinkering with a pokédex.

Flicking off his shoes and taking off his hat, Brendan instinctively gravitates towards the kitchen, resting his arms onto the counter. May follows suit, albeit it takes her almost a century to do so.

"I think you're rushing things," she mumbles, reaching for a jar of cookies across the counter.

Brendan keeps his mouth closed; his eyes trail around the house. It can get difficult, telling things apart from one another in here. While the Maple family's home is ridiculously neat and tidy (so much so to the point where he's afraid of walking around with socks on in case he'll slip), the Birch's home can get so messy with research papers and books that Brendan can't even identify where the bathroom is. In this home, muscle memory guides the person around—not visual clues.

As for the pokémon in each family...they're about as different as summer and winter are in Unova.

The pokémon in the Maple family are typically fierce, experienced battlers. For most trainers, walking up the steps of the Petalburg Gym seems like a far off dream, an idea that shoos people away instead of bringing them closer. Trainers who do step in don't last long. The ones that do last get utterly wiped by Norman's king of the normal types: slaking.

Pokémon in the Birch family, however, are more suited as pets or research helpers than anything else. Mulberry, for example; as a young kid Professor Birch supposedly embarked on a badge quest with Mulberry as his starter, but decided to give it a rest once he picked up researching again. Nowadays the sceptile helps with research, protecting Professor Birch as he trudges through the most feral of habitats.

To top it all off, it turns out that five-year-old Brendan's suspicions of Mulberry being pregnant were more or less correct, he was just off by...two years. (Granted, he was biologically incorrect, too—sceptiles lay eggs.)

"Marsh!"

Snapping out of his brain, Brendan perks up. Nettle—May's grovyle—and Skipper seemed to have reunited, chasing each other around the couches. Brendan's frown tightens as Nettle leaps over Skipper, causing the marshtomp to squeal and cower. Before Brendan can help out the poor thing, however, a cookie shoves its way into his face. Wrinkling his nose, Brendan waves the treat away.

"You've been so down lately," May says, shoving the cookie into her mouth. Brendan cringes as she continues talking and chewing at the same time. "You'll be fine with the test and battle. You're smart."

Brendan looks down at the marbled counter. "I guess."

"You know I'm right," May counters, slamming the cookie jar shut, "you just gotta—you know! Believe in yourself for once."

Ramming her shoulder against his, she flashes a smile. Begrudgingly, Brendan smiles back, but avoids looking directly at May. Together they stand there, in silence, only for May to meander off towards the stairs. Brendan contemplates following her for a bit, but he remains rooted where he is, drowning in silence. After a few minutes, he glances back at Skipper.

_At least he's happy,_ Brendan notes, cheek resting against his palm.

As if on cue, Nettle leaps over the couch and away from Skipper's reach, her movements a blur. It makes sense, that grovyle's speed; she's Mulberry's daughter, after all.

It takes about another twenty minutes—so practically a decade—until May scrambles downstairs, tightening the bow on her green bandana. By then Professor Birch had already printed out the test packets, with Brendan sitting on one side of the dining table, pencil in hand. Groaning an over-dramatic mess of a sigh, May flops into her seat, pouting as her father hands her the packet. Flipping through the pages, she scowls. Brendan can't help but smile a bit at her widening eyes as she tears through the entire thing, examining each side of every page.

_This'll take her ten minutes,_ Brendan thinks, his eyes falling to his own test.

Tuning out the rest of May's silent complaints, Brendan begins hitting away at the first question. He isn't one to brag, but he can't help but smirk a bit, as he blasts through all of the questions. Questions like "_What is an ability?_" or "_How does a potion work?_" are scattered throughout the entire exam, littering every page. Dear Latias, Brendan even finds himself snickering at the best question: "_Who are Kyogre and Groudon?_"

As predicted, May finishes relatively quick for it being a ten-page packet, with Brendan not too far behind. After they hand their tests in, they sit and wait.

May decides to be the first one to break the silence, as always.

"Nettle and I have been trying to improve her speed," she boasts, waving her hand for her grovyle to waddle over. May strokes the leaf on Nettle's head. "How much have you and Skipper been training?"

Upon hearing his name being called, Skipper bounces over, his tail fins a blur. Picking up the marshtomp, Brendan places him on his lap. Giving a small eye roll, he bounces one knee.

"Uh...enough," he says, attention mostly focused on the twirling pencil in his hand.

Truth be told, he can't remember the last time they've trained without May or Professor Birch's help. Sometimes Skipper practices water gun on some random rock, or uses his mud shot to make a mess, but it has never been anything intense or rigorous.

May, on the other hand—Brendan shivers at just how brutal her training can be. Nettle never gets hurt from it (he's been convinced time and time again that she's too strong for that), but dear Latias. Sometimes Brendan wonders if May has been training Nettle for the Olympics all this time. Sure, the Birch family isn't known for their battling prowess, but it seems as if May has been dead-set on becoming the strongest in her whole family. It's only a matter of time until she reaches that point.

"Ahem."

Snapping out of his thoughts, Brendan whips his stare to May. A smug look plasters itself all over her features as she leans across the table, cheeks propped up by her hands.

"You didn't train, did you?"

His face burns. "I—I did!"

May twirls a finger through her hair, not daring to rip away her brown eyes from his. Brendan holds the stare for a little longer before he gives in, sagging his shoulders and dropping his vision to the ground.

"Okay—no," he mumbles, hugging Skipper close. He flinches at May's aggressive laughter, his face so hot it can leave a sunburn. "I just...I know I'm gonna lose, May."

May wipes a tear from her eye, nearly falling off of her chair in the process. Brendan guesses that laughter is contagious now, because Professor Birch barely follows in his daughter's lead, a light chuckle escaping from his lips. Head spinning, Brendan shuffles around, his back facing May.

"Come on, Brendan!" May pats Brendan's back a few times, then decides that shoving his shoulder blade would be a better option. "If you—of all people—can do your kung fu thing—"

"Taekwondo."

"—then Skipper can win a battle."

Brendan scoots his chair further away from the table. "...Thanks?"

"No problem."

Brendan sighs, pressing a fist to his mouth. Squeaking and kicking his legs around, Skipper carefully slaps his paws at Brendan's hands. Brendan melts into the back of the chair, raising his hands out of reach and flicking his fingers to and fro. A much more deafening squeal pours out of Skipper's lips, causing Nettle to bolt over and tickle away at his belly. Exasperated, Brendan glances over at May, trying his very best to keep a grip on the flailing, rag-doll Skipper.

For a while, the two sit there—waiting. Eventually, Professor Birch meanders back into the room, their packets in hand with red and green marks doodled across the front pages. Barely holding out his hand, Brendan grabs hold of his packet, carefully maneuvering his arm around Skipper's head to stare at it.

An eighty-five percent. _Okay, that's good—_

"Ninety-eight percent!" May booms, tossing her hands into the air. "I'm gonna beat your butt in that battle, Brendan!"

Well then. Brendan huffs in response, shaking his head. Professor Birch stops besides May's chair, bending down to plant a kiss on her head.

"Speaking of the battle"—he rubs his hands together—"Norman and I have decided that the battle will be tonight, during the feast."

Brendan hacks out some strangled form of a cough, leaning forward as Skipper scrambles off of his lap. May blinks, staring blankly ahead of her. Then, a smile big enough to top a gengar's inches across her face, her shoulders bunching together; she throws her head back, meeting her father in the eye.

"I like that a lot!" she says. "Brendan and I will make all of Hoenn jealous of our battle skills."

Sheepishly, Brendan forces out a chuckle, rubbing his hand through his hair. He glances over at Skipper—who happens to be shoving a paw in his mouth.

_Yeah,_ he thinks, slouching, _jealous._

—⋇⋆✦⋆⋇—

Brendan wants to say that he's fine. In fact, he even manages to put on his best smile as he scurries right back into his home, Skipper clutching onto his hand like a lost toddler. Yeah, yeah—he's okay. It's just another day, totally not the feast. Yup. Mhm. Kicking off his shoes without too much force, Brendan picks his way towards the kitchen, ripping his hat off of his head and throwing it onto a couch. No, the television totally isn't talking about the Latios that tore apart Littleroot.

Yeah.

Everything is not fine.

Of course Professor Birch wants to show off May's skills. Of course May wants to be known as the strongest in all of Littleroot. Of course Brendan will be the biggest embarrassment to the Maple family since...ever.

_Well—maybe May will be nervous because of the crowd?_ Brendan wonders. He pauses, remembering all of her solo pageants as a kid. _Yeah. No._

Crashing onto the couch, Brendan buries his head in his hands, shoulders hunching together. Skipper heaves himself up right next to Brendan, swinging his legs merrily. The sounds of news reporters drown Brendan's ears, their voices garbled together; he flinches when the Latios gets mentioned again. Not even daring to lift away from his hands, he reaches for the remote.

_Click_.

The voices disintegrate. Tossing the remote, Brendan rubs his temples, eyebrows scrunched together. A faint meowing sounds from behind and, soon enough, a stocky delcatty slides her way off of the top of the couch and into Brendan's lap. Ignoring Skipper's pleas for attention, Brendan rubs a hand over the delcatty's back. Purring, she rolls over and reveals her stomach.

"You feeling social today, Grape?" Brendan hums, scratching the top of her head.

"Grape had to go into the gym this morning." Blinking, Brendan turns his head back to see his mother. "Mary called in sick, and we had a challenger when you were gone."

An aged battler, Grapefruit has seen all forms of opponents at the Petalburg gym. One might consider her the "second mascot" of Petalburg; at one point people had to face Brendan's mom—and, consequently, her delcatty—before charging into Norman's room. To top it all off, her appearance is all a trick—Brendan has seen this chubby cat in action. Her attacks will never miss. Now, though, she's more or less retired, only stepping in when someone calls in sick.

Brendan nods, not daring to scratch at Grapefruit's belly. "Or she's planning on going to the feast." He pokes at the delcatty's nose. "Did Dad win?"

"He didn't lose a single pokémon."

Brendan's shoulders droop. Of course. Battle genes have been carried down throughout the entire Maple family for centuries, all the way back to when Hoenn consisted of tribes instead of cities. Brendan—he just has the short end of the stick, he guesses.

Pouting, Brendan slouches even more, sinking so low that even his rear end slides off the couch. His mother doesn't do much, until she scoots her way around the couch and faces him.

"Something on your mind?" she asks, reaching out one hand for Skipper to hug.

Brendan sniffs, averting eye contact. "I have to battle May tonight."

"You always do that, every summer."

"Well—yeah," exasperated, Brendan shoots up, "but this time it's different! Professor Birch wants us battling during the feast, in front of everybody." He pulls on his cheeks, stretching his eye sockets down. "I'm going to look stupid!"

His mother rolls her eyes. "I'm sure you'll be fine, sweetie." Brendan grumbles. "What? I'm serious. You're a handsome—"

"Mom."

"—strong—"

"..."

"—genius little man with Maple genes in your blood."

Brendan slams his eyes shut, crossing his arms and fighting the urge to start whining. Without another word, his mother squishes both of his cheeks and plants a kiss on his forehead.

"I love you; you'll do great."

He wilts. "Yeah. I love you, too."

His mother beams, pulling away and heading for the kitchen. Brendan remains still in his spot, his ears picking up the swoosh of the fan above. Skipper has definitely grown since last year. Wincing, Brendan cringes at the vivid memory of Nettle slicing at the marshtomp's stomach. The end result wasn't pretty, and the battle had to be forfeited for poor Skipper's sake. Brendan won't hesitate to forfeit again this year, if it means preventing Skipper from getting sliced open again. His father, though...

Shuddering, Brendan pats the marshtomp's head. _I wonder if he's nervous at all?_ He listens to Skipper's cooing. _No._

From day one, Skipper has never been nervous. Even when he's about to be utterly obliterated by a bullet seed, Skipper will stand strong, bracing himself for impact. Heck, even as Skipper clambers over the back of the couch and slides off, he shows no fear—even when the couch happens to be much taller than him. Honestly, if battles were based off of boldness instead of actual strength, Brendan and Skipper would've won every single won. Dang. He will never be able to understand how such a tiny pokémon can glow with overwhelming amounts of courage.

The sound of pots and pans clanging against one another echoes throughout the home and, eventually, Brendan rips away from the couch, his skin snapping off of the leather. Groggily, he clumps into the kitchen, leaning against the island and letting the noise speak for itself. He can already tell by the running water splashing its way into a pot and the thawing beef right beside the stove that she's making the most heavenly dish possible: seaweed stew.

_Gurgle_.

Licking his lips, Brendan exhales softly. Standing around won't get the food going, he guesses. Ambling towards the refrigerator, he grasps onto the handle.

"Do you need help?" he asks, leaning towards his mother but keeping his grip on the handle.

"Your father wants mentaiko pasta this year." Turning off the faucet, she sighs. "Just like every year." Setting the pot on the stove, she cranks the heat. "Maybe you can bake something, too."

Brendan nods, prying open the fridge door. Cooking has been a skill that he more or less developed through the years, but his abilities aren't anything too fancy. The best he can do is grab another pot, boil some noodles and chop up the mentaiko; once that's finished, he grabs plastic wrap and lays it over the plate, bringing it to the island and letting it rest there.

"Tomp!" Brendan turns, looking down at Skipper. Gills wiggling, the marshtomp opens his mouth.

"Okay, okay," Brendan laughs, digging through the fridge. Dangling a frail piece of magikarp from his fingers, he holds it just above Skipper's reach. "What's the magic word?"

"Marsh."

"Good boy."

Dropping the fish, Brendan reels back as Skipper gobbles it up, his obnoxious chewing enough to make one cringe but at the very least swift. Smacking his lips, the marshtomp holds his paws out. Gingerly, Brendan picks up the pokémon with one arm and proceeds to prepare more food.

Once he sets down the final batch of cookies, Brendan leans his back against the island, crossing his arms and breathing out deeply. Finally. The sky is already beginning to turn orange in color, meaning the feast should start soon—about five minutes or so. Even with time to spare, he can easily pick up sounds of children giggling and the roar of conversation outside. Curiously, he moves towards the window above the sink and peers out.

"Holy Latias," he breathes, eyes widening at the sheer number of people.

His mother comes up from behind, hugging him. "Are you and Skipper ready?"

Brendan's heart sinks. Right. Slowly, he bobs his head up and down, moving out of his mother's grasp to approach Skipper. Tightening his hand around the marshtomp's, Brendan scoops up a few boxes and bins with the other arm. Slowly, he walks. The more he steps the more his feet grow heavy; his heart race increases, and his mind becomes a blur.

Pausing at the front door, Brendan flicks his stare onto Skipper. "You ready, bud?"

Skipper squeaks, throwing his paws into the air.

Brendan forces a smile. "Okay, let's go."


End file.
